Always by Jeff Weddle

Jeff Weddle, Poetry


You walk through the door and hear the crashing.

It’s odd, because before you opened the door

everything was quiet.

Now, it’s so loud you can’t think.

You walk through the door and the lights hurt your eyes.

So many colors, each one new and brighter

than colors have a right to be

colors you wish you could describe

but words don’t exist for any of them.

You walk through the door

and hear the crashing and see the people.

You see the people running like crazy.

You see the people dancing. 

You see the people fighting

and yelling unintelligible words.

You see the people making love and firing weapons.

Sheila finds you.

She takes your arm and leads you to the edge.

Past the edge there is nothing.

No lights, no crashing, no people.

Sheila leads you past the edge.

She is hungry and takes your flesh as her meal.

She shreds you and eats every bite.

You are now entirely Sheila

and she is entirely you.

You emerge into a desert.

It is finally night and the stars sing.

You are in love.

What could be worse?

You forget who you were before you became Sheila.

Then you forget Sheila.

You fall into the place before.

You fall into the crashing.

You become the nameless colors.

There is a door somewhere

and beyond that door is the whole world.

You move with the rhythm of weapons firing.

You move with the logic of color.

Everything is dance.

You are the nameless time.

Finally, you understand flow

and everything happens.

Everything happens.

Everything happens.